I’m a blogger who writes about my sexual experiences on the road with bottoms I encounter… My blog is read by thousands every single day, reproduced on several sites and even some entries end up on a famous porn studio’s website.

Perhaps you might like to be the inspiration for a piece when I slide into town next week?

I don’t identify the bottoms I fuck, just write about the experience…

Hit me up with your info — a pic, stats, etc. I’ll respond with my blog details so you can check it out. We’ll go from there.

The site contains a lot of information beyond my fucks. And if you happen to be a top, we can tag team or maybe you’d like to try sitting on my cock… it’s a perfect 7 inches cut.

Thanks!

P.S. The only major requirement (other than bottoming for me) is that you don’t smoke.

From all this, I do get a lot of inquiries. Most of them are lurkers who never intend to meet. This I get. It’s also an opportunity to find new people to read my blog since not all barebackers have found the Bareback Brotherhood or my blog.

With many there’s the “I just fuck safe,” and then more than half switch their story. But some don’t. Yet, with my blog, it becomes a jerk-off destination for many.

When I do finally arrive, I e-mail the best back to see if they’re still up for that fuck.

Arriving in Concord

My arrival in Concord allowed me to long in locally to BarebackRT.com, Grindr, Scruff and Manhunt.net, all of which use a geographic tool to notify one who’s closest. I also posted to Craigslist.

Two men of the many interested e-mailed me back saying they were still up for the fuck, but one 4 p.m. pump-and-dump session became a no-show with regrets arriving several hours later because he was “stuck somewhere.”

Flake.

All of my online activity netted me a lot of interest. A lot. I was fresh meat in a town that didn’t see a lot. Of course, I got the usuals…

People just wanting to collect photos, see my cock or face.

I had one prospect on BarebackRT… he was a fucking hot dude in his late twenties… seemed like a good one. But here’s where we begin one issue that baffled me for Concord.

He had no vehicle.

I needed to come to him and pick him up, bring him back to my hotel to fuck and then take him home.

Now please check out the map.

Concord is not a major city. It’s 1½ hours north of Boston. It’s not a walking city. How can you not have a car and survive, especially when you’re not in college?

This turned into a theme of the night. No car. No transportation. My car is in the shop. My car is in the shop due to the storm. I don’t have a car.

By the way, none of these bottoms ever asked where I was staying to see if I happened to be within walking distance.

THEM: “I know but I have to get up early. I wish you were here…” fill in the blank with “tomorrow night” or “this weekend”

In other words, they can never come over now or today.

Proximity Alert

My first promising opportunity looked like a threesome, which I won’t get into too much detail on. In his early thirties and a scruffy blond, wanted to know if I wanted to fuck both him and another guy, in his early twenties — both online at the same time. As if on cue, the younger one sends me a message.

The younger one asks if I’ve got poppers, which of course I do.

Then he asks if I’ve got anything “more fun.”

WTF.

“Dude,” I respond back. “You’re well aware I’ve come into town. That means I flew. That means I went through security. At an airport. Are you fucking kidding me? Why would I have any drugs?”

He responds, “Oh yea, I guess you’re right. But I still want to fuck.”

Anyway, the vibe is off and the duo then go even more weird. The young one claims the old one is stalking him. The old one claims they’re “together.”

I don’t want to get into the shit. Kick them both to the curb.

Right Downstairs

One last opportunity happens as a guy indicates he’s in a hotel. I ask which one and it turns out he’s in the same one as I am.

Bingo.

He won’t disclose his room, so I give him mine, knowing my colleague isn’t on that floor. He tells me he needs 10 minutes to shower and get cleaned up.

Those 10 minutes pass. Then another 10. Another 10. Yet another 10. And at 45 minutes, I finally message him.

He apologizes, saying it’s taking him longer than he thought to clean out his ass.

Whatever, I say, just get his ass to my room.

Then he says come to his.

I tell him I don’t have his room number.

He says okay, he’s now putting on his clothes.

At an hour after we started this exchange, he says he’s on his way.

Then I get a text asking me if I’ll suck his dick too.

I’m baffled. I just ask, “What?”

Then he writes, “I need to run by the front desk real quick.”

Fuck that.

This fucker is just playing me.

“Forget it.”

He gets all bent out of shape. Says he won’t go by the front desk. Blah blah blah.

After some back and forth, I say he can some to my room, but he has three minutes to get there.

He says he doesn’t like my attitude.

I tell him to fuck off.

The next morning, he begs me to come to his room to fuck him.

I tell him I’m not disturbing guests actually staying in the hotel.

Postscript

Perhaps the little fucker actually was staying in the hotel or maybe he was one of the guys I’d e-mailed earlier and said I was in town and knew the hotel from that. I’ll never know. I’m proud I never knocked on anyone’s door. That shit pisses me off. He probably kept delaying things to try and get someone else to come over and knock on my door but, like me, couldn’t find anyone to do it.

This weekend will be the first time I’ll be wandering around the city since I was in my twenties.

Mark Bentson in his twenties is significantly different than Mark Bentson in his forties. Yes, I barebacked then. But then, I tended not to be “out” about it. And, well, a little bashful.

When I was there, it was only a few hours. I fucked this guy for about two hours, breeding him three times. We went to dinner with some of his friends then I went to a hotel near the airport where I bred someone else. The next morning I went home.

I’m not sure what I’ll be up to while I’m in town this weekend, but I’ll probably do something touristy. Cross the Golden Gate. Hit the Fish Market. Fuck someone. If you want to be a host, let me know…

Fucking is touristy, right?

* * *

Getting in touch with Mark is easy. Just visit the Contact page or check out the links on the top right of every page on this site…

My journey to the Sunshine State lacked a lot of sunshine. I attempted to see if I could use Twitter and this blog to get a little attention — hopefully some of the sexual kind. I knew some hotties were around the area and hoped a couple might even just pop in to meet, have a drink and see what comes up.

Alas, that did not happen. My tweets resulted in some resounding silent responses, except for the occasional “wish I was in town” bullshit.

Something tells me a few wanna-be bottoms were in town but just didn’t want to see what words ended up here.

So I spent my first evening at the Parliament House Motor Lodge, getting a little more shit-faced than I’d planned. And believe me, the shit-face truck rolled over me like a tractor trailer. Around 2 a.m., I stood over the sink, water running and washing off the last of that evening’s dinner and drinks, which decided for a command performance. As the soberness returned a little at a time and I cursed my drunken lot in life, I decided the 30-degree fresh air might snap me out of it.

I stepped outside my door, seeing the usual collection of trolls and semi-straight seeking a blowjob.

The crispness filled my lungs and helped wipe some of the fogginess away. I watched as a beefy man who’d driven from Tallahassee for a blowjob wandered the breezeways hoping for a welcoming mouth. He attempted to shun me, which was fine because anything in my mouth at this point might start me hurling again.

He soon walked away and two more doors down, I saw it swing open into the shadows. He appeared for just a moment, standing in the open door, his arms stretched over his head, his lightly hairy pits whispering in the breeze and his bare tan skin showing the immediate puckering of goose bumps.

Jeans, open to show just the hint of pubes, I never got a good look at his face. But his body wasn’t obscene. Probably in his early 30s, a wide beefy chest, very smooth with one tattoo on his upper right arm.

Our eyes locked for just a moment.

All this transpired in less than a second and my glance gave me enough inspiration to begin to walk toward him as he hid in the darkness. I walked into the room, closed the door behind us and unzipped.

He didn’t have the same problem as me. He gobbled down on my cock voraciously — sucking so damn hard I thought my head would rip from the shaft. This little Latino bitch wanted cock.

Soon his pants were off and we were tugging at my clothes. The cool air had stopped the room from spinning, but now the lust that seemed to consume us filled the air. We were intoxicated. Before long, we kissed, his serpentine tongue snaking into my mouth and licking at the sides of my mouth.

I don’t kiss much, although it’s been known to happen. But there’s a moment sometimes when you just want as much as a person can give. And for some reason, this little bitch in heat had me.

Before long, I’d slicked up my cock and he’d offered his ass up. I pushed inside him and a little groan escaped him, followed by the sound of the piece-of-shit mattress beginning to squeak as I am sure it had a thousand times before this night.

Each thrust, a little deeper. Each time he pulled me closer. Soon my cock was buried in his fat Latin ass.

I fucked him in a variety of positions over the next ten minutes. And he wanted it. He begged with his body. But the thing I needed was to hear him beg.

“Tell me you love my raw cock in your ass,” I’d grunt lowly.

He’s respond with a little hesitation: “I love your cock in my ass.”

“You love taking bare cock in your hole, don’t you?” I’d ask.

He’d always pause. He’d only say, “I love taking your cock.”

Words like “raw” and “bare” just didn’t seem to come out of his mouth. He was embarrassed at his craving for cock and cum. He didn’t want to admit he was a fucking little cum-craving bitch. He couldn’t find the voice to admit it.

I knew what this meant.

I paused to search for poppers, offered him an indulging snort and then immediately took my own as my cock slipped into his spit-slicked hole.

Now I fucked him with meaning. I let him know I controlled his destiny. His legs up around my neck, he sensed some degree of control, like his fat Latino sphincter would be able to expel me when ready.

As I approached the point of no return, I slowed my pace and snapped my breathing into a steady pace. I knew he was listening closely. I knew he craved it but would never admit it.

The poppers kicked into full force and I went over the edge, letting my cum spill out into his guts. That’s when I picked up pace and asked him to “tell me you want it!”

As I approached my fake orgasm, literally moments on the heels of my real one, I began the huff and puff. Soon as I held my breath in anticipation of an orgasm, his heels pushed down and my cock slipped, coated in cum and spit, from his ass.

In the afterglow, he turned a lamp on and I got a good look at his face. It surprised me, the beefy Latin body topped my a slightly pear-shaped head, his eyes slanted opposite from Asians. He looked straight out of New Jersey but with a very neutral accent. My only thought: “Latino Guido.”

When I finally returned to my room and fell into bed, I smelled and tasted him all night until my shower the next morning. In a way, I wished I’d stayed with him and injected another load to assure a little part of me was left with him. But I would have to be satisfied with the time we spent together.